And yet now Cinda headed the project. For a newbie at Puritan Bank, she’d ascended the ranks extraordinarily fast, an ascent Chandler had no doubt facilitated. But murder? Not Cinda. No way.
Okay, Meg, admit it: you don’t like Cinda. That was a nobrainer. Cinda was smart, attractive, young, and aggressive. Meg was … smart. Cinda was Chandler’s type, and Meg had always known that she wasn’t. Was this about jealousy? She hoped not, but she had to consider it. Cinda had snared Chandler’s attention and affections, even while Chandler was still involved with her. Had Cinda known about her then? Had it made any difference? Somehow Meg doubted it. Cinda knew what she wanted, and knew what to do to get it. Meg would’ve been a minor inconvenience at best.
But although she might not be a brilliant blonde, Meg had a brain and connections of her own, and she was not going to let Cinda take advantage of her.
Meg wandered into the parlor, blazingly bright from the light bouncing off the snow—which highlighted the patchy job she had done scraping the walls. Maybe she was overreacting to Cinda’s request for help. Maybe it was completely innocent, and Meg was seeing duplicity where there was none. Her primary concern was not to make Cinda’s life easier but to determine what would be most advantageous to her when she sold this property.
When? Or if?
Meg, what are you thinking? She crossed the room to the window overlooking the fields, snow sculpted by the wind into improbable billows. You came here to fix up the house for sale and to figure out your next career move. You’ve got a business degree and a good track record; your last supervisor would give you a glowing recommendation. You’re unencumbered and can go anywhere you want. But where is that?
She had no idea. She had been here a month, and she had maybe another three months to make up her mind, apply for jobs, plan a life. Maybe she owed herself some downtime. Maybe she had been too focused on her career, and a break would do her good. Meg laid her hand on the window frame, rubbing the time-worn wood. I want to know who built this house, over two hundred years ago; I want to put a name to the man who planed this wood. I could find out who lived here, men and women. Frances had said that a dash of history might enhance the sales appeal of the place.
As if conjured up by Meg’s thoughts, Frances’s car surged into the driveway, undeterred by snow. Meg went to greet her at the door.
“Hi, Frances. What brings you out in this mess?”
Frances looked a bit disheveled, and she held something behindher back. “This? This is nothing. Wait until we get some real snow. But I was shoveling my walk this morning and it hit me that you might not be prepared, so I brought you this.” With a flourish she pulled out a shiny new snow shovel with a big red bow.
Meg laughed. “You’re right! Seth already figured I would need help with the driveway, but then he got a call and left.”
“I wondered how you got that done so fast. Well, I won’t keep you …”
“You don’t have to run off, do you, Frances? You have time for coffee or something?”
Frances wavered a moment. “If it’s no bother.”
“Of course not. Come on in.” Meg stepped back to let Frances in. Frances stomped her feet on the grubby mat in front of the door, and once inside, she slipped her boots off. “Gotta remember, Meg, these old floors don’t have polyurethane on them, so you’ve got to watch out for water stains.”
One more thing she hadn’t thought of. When would she ever get a handle on this house? “I didn’t know that. I’ve almost always lived in the city, and in a rental. Seems I have a lot to learn about owning a home. Come on back to the kitchen.”
Frances padded behind her in brightly patterned socks. “Hey, you’ve made some real progress here,” she said as they passed through the parlor and the dining room.
“I hope so! Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Sit down, please. Coffee okay?”
“Sure.” Frances sat.
Meg set two mugs on the table. “Do you know, I was just thinking about talking to you. I went to the historical society meeting last week.” The night that Chandler died, she added to herself.
“I was sorry I had to miss that meeting. Christopher always has something interesting to say.”
Frances attended historical society meetings? And knew Christopher? “Are you a member?”
“Sure. It’s good to know the history of a place if you’re trying to sell houses here, you know? And they need all the help they can get. Membership’s cheap.”
“And Christopher goes often?”
“Now and then. What, you know him?”
“He’s been working in the orchard for years, he tells me. He introduced himself one day. He really loves the orchard. I’m worried about what will happen to his research if the development deal goes through.”
“Yeah, that’s a problem.”
Frances leaned back in the kitchen chair and contemplated Meg. “Ah, Meg, Meg, Meg … what have you gotten yourself into?”
“I keep asking myself that,” Meg said, with some asperity. “But what do you mean? Is there something I need to know?”
“Hey, you’re smart. Bet you’ve figured out a lot of things. Like Chandler and me.”
“I guessed. So he, uh …”
“Sweet-talked me into his bed? Yup. Honey, don’t look at me like that. I know I’m no prize, and I never thought it was true love.”
Meg said cautiously, “Chandler could be very charming when he wanted to.”
“And he was great in bed. Oh, never mind. I knew what I was getting into. But then he turned around and shut me out.”
Meg was getting confused. “What do you mean? He dumped you?”
Frances shook her head. “I expected that. What I didn’t see coming was that he was going to suck me dry about all the property in town—who owned what, who would be likely to sell. He was a smooth one, all right. And I’m no dummy. I figured, sure, I’d tell him what he wanted to know, but I figured he’d give me a piece of the deal. I mean, that is how I make my living around here. But, nooooo. After I feed him all the good info, he leaves me high and dry, cuts his own deals—him and his high-price banker buddies.”
That certainly sounded like the Chandler Meg knew: always looking at the bottom line, at getting the best possible deal on the properties he wanted, not toward maintaining good relations within the community. That would give Frances a good motive for murder—dumped and betrayed, in more ways than one— Meg reflected.
As if reading her thoughts, Frances burst into laughter. “Now you’re wondering if I murdered him, and if you’re sitting here with a crazy killer, right? Relax, sweetie. Sure, I killed him—in my fantasies. The way I would have done it, I would have stuffed him in that tank alive and kicking and let him sit and whine in shit until he froze or drowned or whatever. Serve him right. But I didn’t do the deed, much as I might have wanted to. I’d be happy to send a thank-you card to whoever did.”
Lost in processing what Frances had said, and trying to visualize them together, Meg was startled when Frances drained her coffee and stood up. “Well, I’d better run. I’ve got more shoveling to do. Keep up the good work, Meg. I know it’s slow, but it’ll be worth it in the end, you’ll see.”
Meg escorted her to the door and watched as Frances pulled on her boots. “I hope so. Thanks for the shovel, Frances. Now I just need to figure out how it works.”
Frances laughed. “City girl, huh? You’ll learn. But better clear the front path before it freezes, or you’ll be slipping and sliding all winter. I’ll be in touch!”
Meg watched as Frances waded through the snow in front. She was right: Seth had cleared the front end of the driveway, but the front walk was still covered. As Frances pulled away, Meg hunted down her coat and gloves and boots and prepared to do battle with the snow. She had forgotten how heavy snow could be. Bend, lift, toss; repeat. Her shoulder muscles started complaining almost immediately. By the time she was halfway to the driveway, her back muscles had chimed in. She had thought she was in
pretty good shape, after all her renovation efforts, but apparently shoveling snow used a whole different group of muscles. Still, Frances had said she had shoveled out her own place, so Meg should be able to handle it, right?
She reached the driveway and leaned on her shovel, panting. How often was it going to snow in Granford? She had a new-found respect for Frances: she was stronger than she looked. Strong enough to handle a body? That thought came out of nowhere. Meg, you’re getting paranoid. Did Frances have a motive? Maybe. But if Frances had spent a morning shoveling and then come bounding over to her house bearing a snow shovel, then Meg had to believe she had the physical strength to do the deed.
In the meantime, she had better clear off her car so that didn’t freeze into a block of ice. She’d hate to miss her rendezvous with Cinda tomorrow. And if she was going to be out anyway, she could check back with Gail and see if she had located anything relevant. Or go to the library. Or talk with the town clerk about local records. Tomorrow, when the roads were clear, after her lunch with Cinda.
Once she had finished shoveling, she went back inside, grateful for the relative warmth. What next? If she was going to meet with Cinda, she had to do her homework. Surely there would have been news reports about the development project in the Boston financial pages. Maybe she didn’t want to drive anywhere today, but she could easily do an online search. And familiarize herself with the terms and legalities for eminent domain. And look up the details of Town Meeting procedures. That was more than enough to keep her busy—and if it wasn’t, there was always more wallpaper to scrape.
She retrieved her laptop, plugged in the phone line, and booted up. No wireless access here; dial-up was slow, but it was better than nothing.
Three hours later her head was spinning. She had begun by reviewing the Boston financial articles announcing Puritan Bank’s new initiative to invest in community development; Chandler’s picture had appeared consistently. Chandler photographed well and he knew it. Buried somewhere among the articles had been a mention that Granford was among the communities selected. No surprise there.
From there Meg had segued to local news coverage, starting with the major papers in the western part of the state. The articles were cautiously optimistic, highlighting the decades-long decline in manufacturing and other industry in the region— although there was a hint of scepticism about the intrusion of a Boston bank. Sour grapes, perhaps? But it didn’t surprise Meg. Start-up projects required deep pockets, and the local banks might not have had the resources.
Then Meg had turned to the comments in local papers and blogs. It had taken a while for the citizens of Granford to recognize what was going on, but when they had, there had ensued a firestorm of articles. And these were only the ones online; Meg guessed there would be plenty more that hadn’t been posted on the Internet. But the individual responses were widely varied, from one pole to the other. Some people wanted things to stay the same forever; others applauded growth—probably foreseeing lower property taxes.
Meg sat back in her chair and stretched, rubbing her eyes. Reading between the lines in this case made an interesting exercise: the public statements made in Boston had been careful and discreet, but as the story trickled down to the local level, voices were louder and less polished. But sincere, undeniably. Meg could sympathize with that. Bankers made decisions based on numbers, but the residents of Granford were going to have to live with the reality of the project in their front yard. They had every right to be concerned, and vocal about their opinions.
What had she learned that Cinda and her legions of junior associates couldn’t have dug up? Not a lot. In the local papers and a few blogs, several names cropped up regularly; Seth’s name was conspicuously absent, but Meg guessed that he had made a point of staying out of the fray because of his elected position. It couldn’t have been easy for him, caught in the middle— landowner and public official. When it came down to it, would he speak for himself or for the town?
So what could she tell Cinda? She must know that there were ruffled feathers in town, but which ones should she worry about smoothing? And where did Meg’s own loyalties lie—with the bank or with the town?
She stood up to get her blood moving. Whatever her personal feelings, she owed it to the town to evaluate the facts objectively and to make a reasoned and informed recommendation to Cinda. She had no reason to believe that Cinda would even listen to her, but at least she would have done her duty, and anything she learned would be useful for her own ends.
22
By the next day, the weather had turned again. The snow from the quick storm was melting rapidly, and when Meg set out, she found the roads no more than wet and the heaps of plowed snow alongside dwindling fast. She arrived in Northampton shortly before noon and made her way over to the old hotel, whose squat profile dominated a block of downtown. Meg had never been inside and had to admit she was curious. The lobby was much as she had expected: high-ceilinged, with acres of polished wood and pseudo-oriental carpeting, massive bouquets of fresh flowers on marble-topped tables. She knew from its reputation that the place was expensive, and was not in the least surprised that Chandler had opted to stay there. He had liked his creature comforts. She was a little more surprised that his underling Cinda had been allowed to stay in such an upscale place—unless she had shared a room with Chandler?
Meg pushed that unappealing image out of her head and approached the reception desk.
“Cinda Patterson?” she said to the dapper young man.
“Your name, ma’am?” he responded promptly.
Ma’am? How old did she look to this stripling? “Meg Corey. She’s expecting me.”
“Just a moment, please.” He turned away, picked up a phone, and after a few moments murmured something. When he hung up, he turned back to Meg with a bright smile. “Just go right up, ma’am. Room 302.”
“Thank you,” Meg answered, repressing an urge to add “sonny.”
The farther Meg penetrated into the innards of the hotel, the more she felt as though she had walked into a time warp. She had to admit that retaining the slightly faded splendors of the venerable old hotel was preferable to ripping everything out and replacing it with shiny granite and track lighting, but there was a peculiar ageless quality to the place, as though it had been preserved in amber. As she headed down the silent, damask-clad hall on her way to Cinda’s room, she made mental notes about the wallpaper and the wainscoting.
She rapped on the door to 302, and Cinda opened the door quickly. “Hi, Meg, right on time. I’m sorry, I’m running a little late. I got caught up in a conference call—you know how that goes.” Cinda laughed prettily.
“I do.” Meg discreetly studied the room. Not a suite, but more than comfortable. And very neat. Clearly Cinda kept everything hung in her closet or put away in a drawer. Nothing was out of place. “This is a lovely hotel. How long have you been here?”
“The last couple of weeks. Chandler thought it was a good idea to be available on short notice, rather than trying to go back and forth to Boston. Especially with the uncertainties of the weather this time of year.”
Meg was impressed and vaguely annoyed. After two weeks, her room was still this tidy? Much like Chandler, as she recalled: he had always filed his cuff links by material, then by color. And he had never omitted putting them away, even in the heat of passion … He and Cinda must have made a good pair. She swallowed a sigh. She had to admit it was nice to be somewhere clean and orderly after her month living in renovation chaos.
Cinda was stacking the already neat piles of documents and slipping them into her briefcase. Meg prowled around the room, checking out the view. On a table near the window there was an old clothbound book, looking curiously out of place in the elegant room. Meg picked it up and opened it: Easton’s History of Granford. Hadn’t she had a copy of that? She turned to the fly-leaf, and went still.
Yes, she had owned a copy. In fact, she had owned this copy—she recognized the author’s inscription to L
ula and Nettie. And she had loaned it to Chandler last week. What was it doing in Cinda’s room?
“Almost ready. Just give me a minute, will you?” Cinda chirped. “I want to freshen my makeup. I thought we could eat downstairs, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine.” Meg suppressed a small pang of disappointment. There were so many interesting restaurants in Northampton that she hadn’t had a chance to try. But at least Cinda should pick up the tab for this one, since it was a professional consultation of sorts. “No hurry.” Cinda retreated into the bathroom and turned on the water, ending conversation.
Meg stared at the book in her hands, then noticed a slip of paper lodged between the pages inside the book. A bookmark? Meg opened to the page. It was a credit card receipt from some place with a Northampton address.
And it was Chandler’s credit card number. She had seen it often enough in the past, and her mathematical mind had filed away the last four digits. The slip had a date and time stamp. For the night after she had had dinner with Chandler, the night he had been killed. And at the time Chandler had been putting charges on his credit card in Northampton, Meg had been watching Christopher talk to the members of the Granford Historical Society. So how could she have killed him?
She inhaled sharply, her mind spinning as she worked through the implications. Chandler had had the book that night and stuck in the receipt when he returned to the hotel. Someone at this place should have seen Chandler, would remember him there.
Then she looked more closely. It appeared to be a bar tab, for multiple drinks. Meg knew that Chandler would not have consumed so many, alone. Therefore, he had had a companion. But who? As far as Meg knew, no one else had come forward to admit having seen Chandler that night. Although, she had to admit, it was unlikely that Detective Marcus would have shared such information with her. The detective said he had talked to Cinda last Friday: what had she told him?
One Bad Apple Page 18
